


When Is It Better (To Be Remembered)

by Her_Madjesty



Series: Twelve Days of Christmas - 2020 [1]
Category: Much Ado About Nothing (1993)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, F/M, alternative universe - ghost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:55:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27834892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Her_Madjesty/pseuds/Her_Madjesty
Summary: There are many means through which a man might become a ghost. Hero doesn’t know all of them, but she’s familiar with more than her fair share.
Relationships: Hero/Don John (Much Ado About Nothing)
Series: Twelve Days of Christmas - 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2037376
Comments: 10
Kudos: 17





	When Is It Better (To Be Remembered)

**Author's Note:**

> On the first day of Christmas, a harried writer gave to me...an unwise writing challenge that she's inflicted on herself! 
> 
> Welcome all to the Twelve Days of Christmas! Every other day for the next month (Dec 2, Dec 4, etc.), I'm going to post some fanfiction. More specifically, I'm going to post Don John/Hero fanfiction. I would love to be more engaging in my advertisement than that, but I can't feel my nose, fingers, or toes, so my holiday cheer feels more manic than anything else. Special thanks go out to Pure Anon and perennial; I had you both in mind when I first undertook this self-imposed gauntlet, and I hope the coming season treats you well.
> 
> In any case: enjoy the first of twelve fics featuring a rare pair I had no idea I would get into! Warnings here for brief depictions of violence including choking. Note, too, that none of these fics are especially Claudio-friendly.

There are many means through which a man might become a ghost. Hero doesn’t know all of them, but she’s familiar with more than her fair share.

(There was a morning, after all, where her vision went black; where the hands around her throat took her to that place between life and death. She may be able to Speak and See because of that violence, now, but it is the same violence that leaves her glancing over her shoulder and awake into the wee hours of the morning, terrified that if she sleeps, she’ll never wake up again.)

But, to the point.

There are many means through which a man might become a ghost. Hero knows this, and yet, she can’t understand why one man-made-ghost might be plaguing the largest vineyard in Messina.

*

She visits the city on a whim, in-between stops on a meandering trip across greater Italy. Sicily welcomes her like an old friend, the hot sun beating down on her shoulders and sticking her linen dress to the small of her back. Her hem blows to and fro in the gentle window as the streets welcome her, full as they are of other tourists and vendors and memories that she cannot quite recall.

The villa on top of the mountains glimmers like a jewel in the island’s crown. Hero could have spotted it and its attached vineyard even without the help of her cellphone, but a quick Google search tells her that it’s open to the public for tours, tastings, and overnight stays.

And so, some time after checking into her hostel and grabbing something to eat, she takes the path up and up and up, forgoing the open-top buses and the rare horse and carriage in favor of her most reliable pair of boots. Her fingers drag along the tree branches dipping into the road, and she smiles at the children riding bicycles in and out of the town down below.

(She may be in Sicily on a whim, but she is not in Italy without reason. Her left hand is newly-emptied of an engagement ring, and the lack thereof has left her itching – not regretful, mind, but desperate to get away. Her ex-fiancé now prowls the streets of London with a renewed wedding on his mind, while her cousin lies on her behalf and Hero disappears into the Italian countryside.)

The entrance to the vineyard bears a set of impressive gates. Someone has flung them open to walkers and buses alike, leaving only a hand-painted welcome sign hammocked between their rails. Hero waves at a bus driver who passes her on his way out and revels in the wonder of staring at that large edifice, at that front walk lined by fields of purpling grapes.

She’s greeted halfway up the walk by a young woman in a dress nearly identical to her own. Her name tag reads “Margaret,” and she smiles at a bundle of visiting families with that same sweat-and-exhaustion determination that salespeople internationally have mastered.

When she spots Hero at the end of the lane, something – shifts on her face. Hero doesn’t have time to study it, but that artificial gleam fades from Margaret’s expression in favor of something...genuine.

Familiar.

“We don’t see walkers that often these days,” Margaret calls in heavily accented English, all but running to welcome Hero in. Her laugh on Hero’s behalf is as warm as the Sicilian sun. “Are you new to town?”

“Visiting,” Hero admits, falling into step beside Margaret almost on instinct. “But I wanted to stretch my legs.”

Margaret hums and holds out her arm. Hero looks at her, one eyebrow creeping high. When Margaret gives her elbow a shake, Hero reaches forward and links their arms together.

(And she’s solid, blessedly solid, so she is not one of the ghosts Hero has become too familiar with on her cross-continental journey. She doesn’t know whether she’s relieved or not to feel Sicily’s sunlight radiating off of Margaret’s skin, but Europe bears too many ghosts for her not to bask, if only for a moment.)

“Can’t blame you for that,” Margaret says, dragging her back to the present with her accented tongue. “But if you’ve never been here before, you’re going to want the full tour.”

“Am I?”

“Most do,” Margaret looks back with a wink. “And anyway – I know all the best secrets about this place. It’s no extra charge, and the tour itself is free.”

Despite her own reluctance, Hero feels a grin start to creep onto her face. She brushes the hair away from her eyes with her free hand and focuses on the villa again. On the upper floors, thin curtains billow out of the home, bright even against the pale edifice.

If there is movement beyond them, Hero does not see it. “Well, then,” she says. “Where do we start?”

*

The villa, Margaret explains, was originally built by one of Messina’s oldest families. The son of the original owner, called Leonato, became governor of the town somewhere in the mid-16th century, at which point he laid the groundwork for the vineyard’s continued success. Apparently, his death saw the property fall into less successful hands, but the value of the land remained, and later generations were able to bring the vineyard to the heights that it stands at today.

Hero takes care to nod along with Margaret’s story as they walk through the fields together. The grapes themselves are lush, if not quite ripe, and Margaret discourages her from picking any. They pass workers as they walk up and down the lanes, many of whom nod in recognition (of Margaret, Hero insists, though more than a few smile at her).

They only enter the villa itself after an hour and a half on their feet. Margaret guides Hero up through the servant’s quarters, past a much larger tour group and towards what appears to be nothing more than a larder.

“There are passageways all over the villa,” she whispers, conspiratorially. “There’s no recorded history of their installation or use, so we’ve assumed that it was either a quirk of the original builder’s or that Leonato preferred his staff not to be seen.”

If Beatrice were here, Hero knows what she’d say – one of those interpretations is far more romantic than the other. But Beatrice is in England, and so Hero is left to nod politely and share knowing looks with the woman taking her on her private tour.

They reach the main foyer via a side stair, coming into the open space only to take in a rush of cool air. Margaret waves at someone on the staff, then drags Hero forward, letting her take her place in the center of the grand room.

(And there should be rose petals, Hero thinks, looking up into the windows with their billowing curtains. She remembers rose petals here, and a hand pressed into her elbow more tightly than Margaret’s is, now.)

She doesn’t have time to linger in the thought. Another tour group moves past her and takes to the main stairs. Her Margaret starts from a spot near the door, as though caught up in memories of her own. The look she gives Hero as they fall into step together is so soft, Hero cannot bring herself to ask any questions.

“We’ll get a bit of wine in you here in a moment,” Margaret promises, linking their arms together again. “But there are a few more spots I think you’d like to see.”

Hero can’t bring herself to argue.

There are more than a few interesting nooks and crannies scattered throughout the villa. The main structure itself is, of course, beautiful, but it is the two-story library and the few outdoor alcoves that interest Hero the most. She lingers by a fountain made silver by the sheer number of coins tossed into its base and lets the sound of flowing water marry the chirping of birds above her head.

As she and Margaret make their way back indoors, they pass a broad, open expanse of marble and columns. Hero slows her steps, leaving Margaret to wander ahead for a second before she realizes that her charge has come to a stop.

“What’s this?” Hero asks, staring past the ghosts of playing children at the disconnected steps, columns, and fire pits.

“Running theories vary,” Margaret admits. “But the what remnants we have of the blueprints consider it something like to a ballroom. We’re not sure if it was ever covered, but as you can tell, it connects to the dining hall. Some of the letters the family’s lent to us tell us that Leonato was fond of large celebrations; if he was keen on dancing, I imagine this would’ve been a good spot for him.

Hero frowns, looking out over the expanse. If she focuses, she can see shimmers here and there – a distant laugh, a couple with their heads bowed together near a column.

And in the midst of it -

Him.

Margaret touches her elbow again, but Hero doesn’t feel her. Instead, she takes a step forward, head tilted in confusion.

The man in the middle of the courtyard pays her no mind. His shirt is undone around the collar, and his hair, though translucent, is dark. He holds a devil’s mask in his hands and is staring off at something Hero cannot see. As she watches, he heaves a sigh – unaware, it seems, of the way the air fails to enter his lungs.

“I take it the villa’s haunted.” Hero hears herself say, as though thousands of feet underwater.

Behind her, Margaret clears her throat. “That depends on who you ask,” she admits. “It’s not something we advertise, though I imagine we’d bring in more tourists if we did. But yes, there have been reports of different spirits lingering in the area. I blame the villa’s history, myself.”

Hero turns at that. Behind her, the man in the middle of the courtyard starts to turn.

“You mean Leonato’s?”

Margaret looks – not uncomfortable, but reluctant. “To a point,” she admits. “Come – let’s go to a tasting.” In a softer voice, she leans in and continues, “I’m off in an hour, and I’m not supposed to share too much more. Stay? There’s a dinner in the evening, and I can tell you more then.”

Hero’s frown deepens, but her sense of unease doesn’t center on Margaret. Instead, she looks past the young woman, back towards one of the villa’s open windows.

The same pang stings her chest, leaving her feeling off-balance.

Cool wind brushes against her cheek. Despite herself, Hero shivers.

“Alright,” she says. “Wine first. Then, your stories.”

Margaret relaxes, if only a little. “Deal.”

(When Hero glances over her shoulder, Margaret’s arm in hers once again, the man in the middle of the courtyard is gone. If she listens, though, she can hear the strains of distant music filling the afternoon air.)

*

The vineyard’s wine is divine, and Hero does not hesitate to say so. Already, behind her, the staff is laying out a table for dinner, but she finds herself content at the bar, where she can make the bartender beam. Margaret leaves her with a flight of wine samples, and Hero waves at her as she goes, almost uncomfortable with how easily a smile comes to her lips. Margaret, to her credit, looks equally surprised, but she still gives Hero’s arm a squeeze before disappearing.

Hero takes her time finishing her flight, then requests a full glass of the vineyard’s mellowest white. She nurses it while the staff sets up the dinner table, eyeing the small band that makes its way into one of the room’s corners.

“Does this happens every night?” she asks the bartender.

“Not all the time,” he admits, in the middle of cleaning a glass. “You picked a good day to visit. The vineyard’s open to the public more days than it’s not, but the Summer Solstice is always special.”

Hero beams, then checks her calendar on her phone. It is, in fact, the solstice. She warms at the implication, then takes a discreet glance around the room.

(The staff, for all their efforts, are not as alone in their work as they might think themselves.)

The bartender accepts her credit card without a question, stamping out payment for her drinks. Hero thanks him as he passes it back, then presses her glass close to her chest.

She makes a game, over the next hour, of pairing the staff with their ghostly counterparts. There are more similarities than she’d like to admit, but perhaps it’s this place – it resonates a warmth and familiarity that could draw even the hardest of hearts in.

By the time Margaret returns, her name tag and uniform abandoned, Hero’s well and truly distracted. Even so, she smiles as the other woman comes to sit beside her, ordering a glass of wine for herself.

“I’m surprised,” Hero admits as the bartender wanders off. “Is the food and company enough to keep you from wanting your home?”

Margaret accepts her glass and shrugs. “Normally, I would go as soon as I was able,” she says. “But the Summer Solstice only comes once a year. You seem fun, anyway.” She winks, then sobers. “And I promised you a story, didn’t I?”

Hero presses her glass to her lips and nods.

Across the room, a cellist draws his bow across his strings, filling the room with warm, full sound.

Margaret sighs. “I’ll keep it brief,” she says, leaning in close. “But it goes like this.”

***

_Leonato: I learn in this letter that Don Pedro of Aragon comes this night to Messina._

***

_Benedick: You hear, Count Claudio: I can be secret as a dumb man; I would have you think so; but, on my allegiance, mark you this. He is in love._

***

_Don John: I had rather be a canker in a hedge than a rose in his grace._

***

_Don Pedro: Count Claudio, when mean you to go to church?_

***

_Don John: What life is in that, to be the death of this marriage?_

***

_Friar Francis: “You come hither, my lord, to marry this lady.”_

_Count Claudio: “No.”_

_Leonato: “To be married to her: friar, you come to marry her!”_

_Friar Francis: “Lady, you come hither to be married to this count.”_

_Hero: “I do.”_

_Friar Francis: “If either of you know of any inward impediment why you should not be conjoined, charge you, on your souls, to utter it.”_

_Claudio: “Know you any, Hero?”_

_***_

Her story is not short, no matter what she says. In the time it takes Margaret to finish her story, Hero drains an additional two glasses of wine. She frowns out towards the horizon, past the set table and the tourists now settling around it.

At her side, Margaret fidgets.

“But you didn’t answer my question,” Hero says, at last, her voice a distant thing. “What does this have to do with the man in the courtyard?”

Margaret flushes, then glances around her. Leaning in, she keeps her voice low, “You’ve seen him?”

Hero tilts her head, then nods, just the once.

If possible, Margaret looks even more distressed. “The stories...aren’t clear,” she admits. “Some say that it is Claudio at the lady’s window, looking up at a deception. Others….”

Hero looks at her.

“Others say that it is Don John.” Margaret frowns. “That it is his punishment for wronging the happy couple; that he must linger here in penance for that harm.”

“Unhappy either way, then,” Hero murmurs. Unconsciously, she strokes the bare skin of her ring finger.

At her side, Margaret sets down her empty glass. “I would not say that I pity either man,” she admits, “for both did a good woman great harm. But even beautiful places must grow tiresome after a while, especially if you’re not here of your own will.”

(And despite herself, Hero thinks back on an English apartment. There were succulents in the windows, once, and curtains that she’d picked out herself. Now, those pots are in pieces in some nameless landfill, and the curtains are in shreds.)

“But come, now,” Margaret says, touching Hero at the elbow. “We’ll want to find a seat. There’ll be dancing later, so you can forget all about your ghost stories and have a bit of fun. Our island won’t abide your dour expression!”

Hero musters up a smile and lets Margaret drag her away from the bar and down towards the sprawling table.

(But she looks back at the courtyard as she goes, rising up on her toes – waiting to see something moving in the summer haze.)

*

(There are many means through which a man might become a ghost.)

*

Dinner goes by in a rush. Hero finds herself elbow to elbow with Margaret and a tourist from America who speaks too loudly but with a good sense of humor. As the musicians in the corner strike up their songs, she finds herself settling in. It gets easier to smile at the jokes; to pass still-warm loaves of bread and bowls of salad; to drink glasses of some of the finest wine (or so Margaret says) in all of Sicily.

She does not forget the ghost in the courtyard, nor any of the ones she sees lingering around the table. Hero does, however, relax. The expressions on the nearest of the phantoms are gentle, and she sees more than a few dancing to the musicians’ songs.

By the time the meal comes to an end, she feels almost safe amidst all of the chaos. It’s that feeling, or so she will later tell herself, that lets her let Margaret grab her hand as the musicians’ music transitions into something pumped in through a near-invisible sound system.

Hero lets herself be carried along.

She and Margaret move a step ahead of the crowd as music, still older than she’s used to, whips the energy from their dinner into a frenzy. Before long, she finds herself moving in time with strangers, all hips and arms raised up above her head.

The whole of the villa seems to thrum with energy. The ghosts – or those that she can see – blend into the crowd, almost corporeal for their grace. Traditional dances blend with modern ones until there’s nearly no more room for movement inside of the hall.

Hero is among the first few to spill into the courtyard. There, the music, despite the constraints of the sound system, seems to spill out into the fields themselves.

(And she has been here before. Somewhere in between dancing with Margaret and a young man’s hands in hers, Hero knows: she’s been here. This courtyard has welcomed her before, though it was Beatrice at her side in a mask made of clay and lace. It was Don Pedro in his beaked mask that stole her away to whisper sweet nothings in her ear, and it was Claudio who waited for her by her father with an open hand.)

(But as soon as she remembers, a pair of hands settle on her hips, and she forgets it all again.)

Hero turns and bats away an older Sicilian man with a laugh, putting space between the both of them as he takes her hands, instead, and twirls her around. She lets him lead her into a rousing tarantella, the two of them driving a river through the dance floor. They receive cheers for their efforts, and other couples follow, hand in happy hand.

At the end of the lane, Hero bows to her guide, and he taps his forehead, in return. She lingers at the edge of this memoried masquerade, her chest heaving and her cheeks aching from her smile.

The ghosts nearest her do not seem to register her, too busy playfully arguing among themselves. When Hero glances over, she sees an older woman bat another man upside the head, all while he laughs and laughs and laughs.

And in the center of the floor –

Well.

Emboldened by the wine and good cheer, Hero looks at the ghost still staring up at some invisible aim. Before she realizes it, her feet are moving, weaving her in and out of the crowd until she’s come to his side.

He doesn’t turn as she approaches. He doesn’t even seem to know she’s there. He only reacts when her warm hand reaches out and grazes his wrist.

(And he’s solid to her touch, Hero realizes, though it feels as though he could burn her palm for how cold he is.)

The ghost pulls his wrist away and looks down at her, startled. His grip tightens on the devil mask in his hand.

Hero –

Doesn’t know what she’s doing. But she holds her hand out to him again and curtsies low, trying with all of the tools in her arsenal to make her message heard.

The ghost stares at her. He opens his mouth, as though to speak, then lets it fall shut again.

Hero struggles to hold her pose as he fits his mask onto his face again. Just as she is about to raise her eyes, though, his cold touch settles in her hand.

Hero looks up with a blinding smile. The ghost blinks, his mask doing little to hide his shock.

Above them, the music changes. It is not slow, it is not modern, but it is, as many things in the villa, ever-familiar. Hero reaches out and draws the ghost’s other hand to her waist. There, it hovers lightly over her skin (but that frozen grip threatens to sink deep into her bones).

Then, with practiced skill, she takes a step.

The ghost follows.

For the first several heartbeats, she leads as best she can, putting pressure on his shoulder as she moves them through their turns. Within those beats, though, the ghost – seems to come into himself. The hand hovering above her waist finds its home, and the grip on her raised hand tightens.

Hero looks him in the face and smiles as he guides her through a spin, lifting his arm so that she can flit underneath it.

The dance floor around them clears, but Hero pays her fellow dancers no mind. The ghost looks down at her with eyes like black marble, reflecting the moonlight even as she can see stars through them. The mask he wears may obscure the rest of his face, but his grip – his freezing skin, and the callouses she almost imagines she can feel – tell her everything she needs to know.

The music picks up speed. Hero hears a whoop from the crowd and glances over her ghost’s shoulder to see dinner guests pairing off, some with ghosts, some with the living. Warm laugh spills from her lips without a thought, and she thinks – maybe – that her ghost smiles in response.

His hands drop to her hips. As the music swells, she lifts into the air. She gasps in delight as other men do the same, women cheering and laughing as the music’s pace fails to slow.

Her heart pounds in her chest. The ghost’s eyes sparkle and burn.

*

She does not know how long they dance. The moon seems fixed in the sky, the hours longer on this, the shortest night of the year. Someone breaks out a cask of wine, and dessert is brought into the courtyard, a grander affair than (as some might report) the villa has seen since its last wedding.

And all the while, in the center of the crowd, Hero and her ghost cling to one another. Despite the cold touch of his hands, Hero can’t bring herself to draw away.

It is only when the sky begins to lighten that the world seems to come back to her. Dark indigo hints at lighter blues on the horizon, and her feet – for the first time that night – begin to ache. Hero feels her breath coming in ragged gasps, but still, her ghost remains.

Slowly, the other dancers around her begin to break away. The ghosts lingering throughout the villa fade into the morning fog.

The music comes to a quiet stop.

Between one blink and the next, Hero finds herself swaying in the center of an empty courtyard. Her feet are barely moving, they ache so badly, but her ghost is still there.

“Who are you?” she asks through a dry throat – her first words, she feels, in the hours that have passed.

The devil mask hides her ghost’s expression, but she can feel his tight grip abruptly grow loose. She catches him before he can pull away, leaving him to tug her after him by accident, in return. Hero would laugh at the confusion in those dark eyes if his distress didn’t sit so heavily on her heart.

When it’s clear she does not intend to let go, he – doesn’t stop fighting her, per se, but stops trying to retreat from the courtyard. Instead, he looks down at her, that same pained expression tightening the corners of his eyes.

Then, a voice – like a whisper, a gust of hot wind – tickles the back of her mind.

“It is better, I think, that you do not know. That you do not...remember.”

He slips one hand free. Hero clings to what she has left, even as the sun continues to rise in the distance.

The devil cocks his head. With the hand he has, he reaches up and unties the ribbon holding his mask behind his head.

It falls to the ground without a spare hand to catch it, clattering to the floor in between them.

Hero still does not recognize the man who looks back at her, but it is clear, given the quiet hurt on his face, that he knows her. The hand that escapes her comes to clasp their bound digits, and he squeezes to the point of pain.

When he lets go again, Hero’s knuckles are white, and the whole of her arm is shivering with the cold. Even so, she maintains contact as the ghost reaches down –

And kisses each of her fingers.

“Let go,’’ he bids her as he straightens again.

“You first.”

Another blink of surprise – and then, the ghost chuckles. Slowly as breathing, he unwinds their fingers, until there is but a moment’s breath between the two of them.

“Live well, Hero,” he says as the morning sun renders him away. “Do not remember this, or me. Live well.”

And between one blink and the next, then, he is gone. Hero steps forward to find nothing but a cold spot rapidly giving way to the morning’s warmth.

She raises the hand that he kissed to her lips. It is still cold – unnaturally so.

Behind her, someone groans. Hero looks over her shoulder, eyes wide, only to see Margaret rousing herself from beneath one of the drug-out banquet tables.

Her feet ache. She feels as though she can barely lift her arms. And yet, Hero reaches out to Margaret to catch the girl as she stumbles.

“I knew you were trouble,” Margaret slurs, lack of sleep binding her words together. “Should’ve kept a closer eye on you. Should’ve sent you home before dinner.”

Despite herself, Hero smiles. Her cheeks hurt.

“Come on,” she says, linking her arm together with the other woman’s. “Breakfast, then bed. I have more questions for you.”

Margaret’s groan fills the courtyard, followed by Hero’s laughter.

(And up in a window, its white curtains billowing, a man watches her go, regret in his heart and in his eyes.)

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you thought!


End file.
